


For All the Wrong Reasons

by dendraica



Category: Wolverine And The X-Men (Cartoon)
Genre: Grief, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Minor Character Death, makes more sense if you read Changeling and We Serve first, surprise cameo from another show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5326436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendraica/pseuds/dendraica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mortimer is already struggling to adjust to Pietro's new way of leading the Brotherhood, but he soon realizes he cannot bring himself to take part in his team's latest mission. In a series of related vignettes, he searches for the courage he needs to not only disobey his orders but to stop the Brotherhood's plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Can't

The order had come tersely and for a moment, he thought he must have imagined it. His gun still trained on the MRD soldier, who stared defiantly up at him, Mort blinked and swallowed hard. “What?” he asked hoarsely. He knew better than to take his eyes off the man but he almost forgot that cardinal rule at the shock of Pietro’s order. 

“I said kill him, Toad,” Pietro hissed and not for the first time since the man had come back from Genosha, Mort felt a chill go up his spine at the venom in Pietro’s tone. He’d never spoken to Mortimer like this before, not even at his most stressful (and Mort knew there were plenty of times he’d contributed to that stress; sometimes at night he’d lay awake, replaying all the stupid things he’d said or done, hating himself) and Mort found himself shaking his head, stunned. 

“Stop wasting time and get on with it,” Pietro commanded, and his eyes flashed dangerously. In a second, he was gone, up the metal stairs and already punching in the next access code. They’d broken into the MRD facility for sensitive documents and for something else - some kind of explosive was all Mortimer knew. Being left out of the loop was certainly not new to him; but as often as he’d been captured by the MRD, he knew why the Brotherhood couldn’t afford to give him details. It stung, but it made sense, and so he’d learned not to take it personally. 

So he’d gotten better in combat, or so he’d thought. It was Pietro who’d insisted that Neena teach him how to shoot - pointing out that Mort’s slime and tongue were useless in most situations and that he should at least have one common skill. 

Mort had done well in the many practice sessions he’d had with Domino, but shooting cans off a wall was very different from shooting a person who was already lying down in front of you with slime across half their face and both arms up in surrender. 

Kill him, Pietro had ordered. But why? It was unnecessary and it was cold; Pietro had usually never given a thought about MRD soldiers when buildings exploded or collapsed, but he’d never gone out of his way to make sure any of them wound up dead either. 

Mort glanced up to find Pietro already slipping through the opened door, out of sight. He pressed his lips together and raised the gun, watching the officer tense at his feet. Neena had taught him other ways to use the semi-automatic rifle in his hands in self-defense. This way didn’t involve bullets, but it would leave a nasty bruise across the man’s forehead. 

He flipped it around and struck the man hard between the eyes, not watching him go limp from unconsciousness as he ran to catch up with Pietro. As a result, Mort didn’t see him stir a moment later, groaning and sit up, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. 

The man staggered upright and made his way to the main power grid. Just one button and one call on the telephone would end this game the mutants were playing; he’d trip all the defenses from levels Beta to Omicron, and see how the little fuckers liked those apples. 

Then he was going to go back to the infirmary, get some goddamned aspirin, and possibly look into that meteorologist job his cousin had been yammering about.


	2. Breathe Again

Dominic winced at the sound of a body slamming against the plaster, the vibrations sending bits of ceiling texture flaking down into his hair. Pietro was home apparently, as was Mort, and considering the timbre of their voices, the mission hadn’t gone as well as planned. He came out of the den to the lobby of the house they were occupying; a nice two-story condo - Pietro had refused to settle down in the squalid apartments he’d found them in. 

Violence among teammates wasn’t something he relished, not even when it came to Toad. It was one thing to fondly imagine hurling the kid into the wall, but it quite another to see Pietro doing it. Pietro was usually the only person that kept Dominic from raising a hand to Mortimer, doing everything short of giving power point presentations as to why Dom should be friendly or at least tolerant of him. 

But this? Mort looked more than a little terrified, one arm shielding his face and long green legs scrabbling over the ceramic tile in an attempt to get away to safety.

“When I give you an order, I expect you to follow it out!” Pietro yelled, seizing him by the throat. Mort gave a thin wail which was cut off as he was hauled to his feet, choking against Pietro’s harsh grip. He tried to pry Pietro’s hands off, panicking. 

“Take it easy, Pietro,” Dominic said calmly, coming up behind him. He frowned when Pietro didn’t relax. Pietro had mostly acted the same as always when he’d come back, except more tense. Dominic hadn’t pressed, knowing that the man’s prior mission to Genosha had Magneto’s hand in it, and Pietro was always an inner wreck when he returned from those. But he had yet to open up about it. It had been a few weeks already, but Pietro could take anywhere from a day to a month to talk about things that bothered him; Dominic hated it, but he’d learned to live with it. 

Taking it out on Mort though . . . that was definitely new. And Dominic was surprised to realize that it wasn’t a welcome change, despite how he little he thought about the kid.

“Surely he could not have messed up any more than usual?” Dom asked lightly, trying to diffuse Pietro’s anger. His tactic worked; with a noise of disgust, Pietro threw Mort back down, sneering at the cowering mutant. Mortimer winced, rubbing at his throat. There would likely be bruises there in the morning. 

Dominic looked at Pietro, not liking the expression he saw. “I thought that would be an impossibility as well, but it appears I was wrong,” he said coldly. “That guard got up a second later, probably as soon as Toad was out of sight, and set off all the alarms. We got what we came for, but it was hell to get out again.” 

“Pietro,” Mort spoke up softly and Dominic suppressed a groan. He’d thought the kid would be smart and keep quiet for once. Even Dominic hadn’t seen Pietro in a rage like this - at least not for a long while. “I’m sorry. Really - but I couldn’t just -” 

“No, there’s nothing you could ever do right, Toad, and I was a fool for expecting any different,” Pietro snapped coldly. The utterly heartbroken look on Mort’s face made Dominic’s stomach squirm. He knew all too well how Mortimer felt about Pietro, and as much as he resented him for it, Dom knew how deeply Pietro’s words had wounded the boy. 

Looking away, Mort got to his feet and scrambled out of the room, wanting to put distance between himself and his humiliation. Pietro scowled and made as if to follow, but Dominic put a hand on his shoulder. 

“You are alright, yes?” he asked Pietro. The man sighed softly, but when he turned to Dom he was wearing a smile. A seductive smile. It was the only way Pietro really smiled at him lately, and while Dominic always enjoyed what actions that led to, right now it almost made him uneasy. 

“I’m fine. Just another day of keeping you guys in line,” he said easily, shrugging. “I suppose you think maybe I need a break, hmm?” 

Dominic raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps.” Usually, on the rare events when Pietro did lash out at Mort or someone else, he’d ask if he needed to go apologize. And usually he would apologize, regardless of Dom‘s answer. Especially if it had been Mortimer. Right now, Pietro didn’t seem to give a damn about the kid‘s state, emotionally or physically. 

That wasn’t normal - not for Pietro. Dominic was about to ask what was really going on, but Pietro’s hand slid up his chest and made him catch his breath. He leaned in and kissed Dom fully on the lips, pressing against him and Dominic felt his arms go around Pietro’s body, pulling him closer. 

He was only a man and Pietro was very hard to refuse (not that Dominic ever would want to refuse him; he wasn’t a fool). But Dominic promised himself, as Pietro led the way to their rooms and as Dom wordlessly followed, that he would get some answers. 

He would find out why Pietro was acting this way, why he wasn’t talking about what had happened in Genosha, or clearing up any of the rumors they’d heard. 

Only . . . Maybe later, yes?


	3. Innocence

The kid was normally the last one Neena would ever trust around a gun, but Pietro had been insistent when he’d dragged Mort up to the roof. This had been a week ago, and she could remember it clearly; Mortimer looking in misery at the bird dropping splatters on the concrete and Pietro giving her that imperious ‘I’m-in-charge’ expression that he’d worn as a younger man (and that she could have sworn she had long since slapped off his face). 

“You want me to what?” she’d asked, incredulous. 

“Teach him how to fire a weapon, since he can’t seem to fight otherwise,” Pietro had told her, casually cruel. He didn’t look at Mort to see if it drove home, but the kid hunched his shoulders tighter and his hands curled into fists. 

“Fine,” Neena said, mostly so that Pietro would leave them. He was giving her the creeps lately. To the rest of them he seemed normal and friendly, keeping up the familiar camaraderie. He and Dom appeared to have patched things up - they were comfortable enough to share a room in the Brotherhood’s temporary dwelling space. However, the way he’d started to treat Mort was completely unlike him and it had come totally out of left field. 

Sometimes, it even seemed Pietro was trying to goad the rest of them to turn on him - to hurt Mortimer in some way. Even this right here was an example; Pietro had been surprised when she acquiesced to his demand that she teach Mortimer. He’d obviously been expecting a protest that would not only outline how her time could be better spent, and also probably a personal attack on Mort’s character.

It was true that the kid was high strung, prone to being easily startled. Up until now, Neena had never been shot in the ass on a mission by friendly fire, and she wasn’t about to trust her luck would hold out if she handed Mort a gun. 

But something about the way he’d looked at her then, after Pietro had left them on the rooftop, had made Neena beckon him closer, put her hands on his shoulders, and tell him that he was her student now. That she had faith in him, and so long as he listened to her instructions closely, she had every confidence he would be a sufficient marksman by the end of the month.

Also, that if he did manage to shoot her in the ass, he was going to be excruciatingly sorry for the last five remaining seconds of his life. Got that, sweetie?

Mort had nodded, eyes as round as sand-dollars, and so had begun their training.

“You have good gun sense,” she observed, when she’d handed him the silencer for the first time. It was unloaded, but Mort didn’t act as though it was. He held it carefully, aimed down and wary. It heartened Neena that he wasn’t waving it around like some confident idiot teenager might.

“I’m not really going to have to shoot anyone, am I?” Mort had asked unhappily their third night, while Neena timed him with changing cartridges. She’d looked at him for a long moment, then stopped the clock. 

“Pietro wanted you to learn how.” 

“But I won’t have to, will I? I think he just wanted me to good at something,” he muttered. “Maybe so he could justify to Magneto why I’m still on the team. Maybe that’s why he’s being so hard on me, all of a sudden.” 

Neena didn’t think so. But she shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, watching him. “Kid, if it comes down to it, I’d rather you shoot the enemy than wind up dead.” 

Mortimer looked distinctly uncomfortable, fiddling with the empty cartridge. Even in his agitated state, he kept the gun pointed harmlessly at the ground. 

“But I can’t kill anyone. I know I can’t.”

“Sure you can. You raise the gun, aim, and fire,” she said. Even though Neena knew it wasn’t that simple. Mort shook his head. 

“I can’t do it. I’d rather slime somebody and just . . . get away.” 

“I know,” Neena sighed. And that was why Mortimer always lost; always got caught. Because he wasn’t ruthless like the rest of them. Because Mort looked at targets and saw people. He saw their families waiting in silence outside the hospital room, or their loved ones waiting by the telephone for that ‘Coming home soon, I love you’ call that wouldn’t ever come again. 

So Mortimer wouldn’t pull the trigger, not if his life depended on it, because he saw people in a way that Neena had lost a long time ago, and couldn’t afford to regain. 

She almost envied him, except that would be foolish. Neena felt suddenly and ridiculously afraid for the kid and struggled for words to say what she felt - to warn him that he didn’t belong with them if he still cared this much. She wanted to urge him to get out of here, to get somewhere safer than this. 

The sky rumbled with thunder, and she felt a few dots of rain hit her forehead and cheek. “Come on. Help me get stuff in,” she said instead. 

And for the rest of the night, she hated herself for being such a coward.


	4. Silence

Early mornings were not really Fred’s thing. They were seldom anyone’s thing, though more than occasionally, Pietro would be getting them all up before the ass-crack of dawn for one reason or another. But lately Pietro had been sleeping in with Dom. Once in a while this happened, but it had started to be every morning.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Fred yawned hugely and shifted on the large couch, letting his eyes drop shut again. It was about five thirty according to the glowing clock above the TV. And the people whose house the Brotherhood was crashing out had really fucking comfortable furniture. All of it was oversized (and judging from the picture of hubby on the wall, it needed to be) and the living room was arranged to be lived in rather than to look prissy and post-modern. These people were obviously loaded; right now they were on cruise to the Caribbean, where, according to the brochures and printouts left on the counter, they were staying for about two months. 

Fred nearly wished it was a whole year – he could get used to this. He was just beginning to doze off again when there was a thump and a muffled curse from the hallway. A thin figure loped out of the darkness and made its way to the door, opening it a crack and allowing light from the front porch to spill in. Fred watched as a green arm pulled in a newspaper (these people hadn’t even bothered to stop their newspaper service; there had been a neat pile in front of the porch door when Pietro found it). The door shut and he could hear the footsteps draw closer, first knocking into the coffee table with another curse and then seating their owner gingerly into the nearest recliner with a soft groan. 

On any given day, Mort could usually see in the dark better than a feline. This wasn’t the case lately and Fred supposed it had something to do with the fact that one of Mort’s eyes was bruised shut and the other was probably still spotty after getting slammed into the wall during the last practice session. Fred shifted and looked at him. Pietro was being awfully hard on the kid lately. 

“Alright?” he muttered and consequently scared Mort into dropping the paper. The sections slid apart dryly into a piles on the hardwood floor.

“I – I –“

“Relax, Toad, it ain’t an interrogation. Just wanted to know if you’re alright.”

He could make out one wide golden eye looking back at him in alarm. “Yeah, I’m fine. I was gonna turn the light on though. Didn’t know you were sleeping out here.” There was a plea in that statement; Mort usually never got to the paper first. Dom usually threw it out before he could get to it at all, sometimes Fred suspected it was on purpose.

“Yeah, you can turn the lamp on. I’ve slept through daylight, lamp ain’t gonna bother me.”

He suspected there was a sheepish smile somewhere and then the lamp above the recliner switched on. Fred watched Mort fish around the pile on the floor to find the sections of the paper he cared about. Usually it was sports, followed by comics, and then News of the Weird. Sometimes even Abby gave him a laugh and then he’d read it to Fred. 

He didn’t this time, however, merely scanned the paper as quickly and quietly as he could, as though terrified of waking someone else. Fred was surprised to realize he missed Mort’s little cackles and the occasional comment or read-aloud line. Mort seemed to be reading everything today, and his sudden sharp intake of air was so loud in the silence of the morning, that Fred was again jolted out of sleepiness. He looked over and saw that Mortimer had a section of local news. The kid was frozen, starting to go very pale.

“What’s wrong?” Fred asked, starting to get up. 

“N-No . . .” Mort moaned softly, eye still scanning the rest of the article almost frantically. On the couch, Freddy frowned in concern. 

“Wow, you two are up early. I’m impressed,” another voice sliced through the relative quiet. Mort hastily folded the thin paper section bundling it against his side, clearly agitated as Pietro crossed the room. “Nice of you to get the paper, Toad,” he remarked, and held out his hand for it. “I trust you’re finished?” Mort swooped down and grabbed the pile on the floor, and thrust the whole untidy mess into Pietro’s arms.

“I’m done with these sections – you can read them if you like, but I gotta look at this article right now – sorry!” He sidestepped Pietro hurriedly, scuttling for his room. 

“What’s the big emergency? Someone respond to your personal ad?” Maximoff laughed, casually cruel. 

Mort stopped and turned to stare at Pietro, paper still clutched to his chest. He looked utterly crushed, and for a second, Freddy thought the kid was going to crumple and burst into tears right there in the hallway. Then Mort’s features seemed to turn to stone. “No. It’s nothing. Just local news. You wouldn’t care,” he said raggedly. Mort disappeared into his room before Pietro could say anything. Bemused, Pietro glanced at Fred and shrugged. He sorted the paper into a tidier stack in a matter of seconds then carried it into the kitchen. 

Fred scowled after him. Even he had felt the sting of that remark and he knew better by now than to think Pietro just wasn’t thinking. It had been a calculated barb, designed to hurt. Maximoff could be a jerk sometimes, but never this bad before.

The local news section did turn up again, but with an article cut out of it. It was there when Freddy read the paper later, trying for curiosity’s sake to find out what had upset Mort so badly. He didn’t find any clue that morning, but he had a sinking feeling he would find out later.


	5. Article

**Albany, NY –** _A 58 year old male resident of Waterford, Gareth H. Toynbee, was involved in a hit-and-run vehicular accident on Saturday evening, around 10 pm. Police responded to multiple calls when an unknown black vehicle slammed into the side of a blue Toyota pickup, rolling it across the intersection of Third and Madison Street. Before the accident occurred, witnesses stated that the black vehicle was weaving and erratically changing lanes without signaling. Police suspect that driving under the influence was a factor. The driver of the blue Pickup was first transferred to Good Samaritan hospital in Albany. He was later flown in to Sacred Heart, NYC, where he remains in intensive care. No changes have been reported since Monday night. Family members are not available for comment._ - **E. Groebert.**

Mortimer read and re-read the paragraph and once more his eyes locked onto the photograph, the only proof that this wasn’t just a fluke; another man out there named after his father who’d happened to live in Waterford. Gareth was deathly white, surrounded by a nest of tubes and machinery. He looked old and frail in the bed, but it was unmistakably him. As much as Mort prayed otherwise, he couldn’t fight the truth any longer. His dad was dying in some hospital in NYC. Alone. 

_Family members are not available for comment._

He snorted faintly through his fingers, trembling hands pressed against his face. Yeah, they weren’t available, were they? Because Mom was dead, and he was a mutant terrorist. And even if he wasn’t a terrorist, he was still a mutant. Dad wouldn’t want him there. There was nothing he could do. Why did people even visit their relatives in hospitals anyway? Not like they had fucking healing powers.

They go to say goodbye. 

Mort wiped at his eyes, sitting up on the bed. Dad hated him. Hated him because of what happened to Mom and because he was a mutant and . . . and he wasn’t the son Gareth wanted anyway. But still . . . dying alone? Mort didn’t like hospitals. Neither had his mother and she had died in one. He hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to her. Had she been scared? Had she wanted him there, just so he could hug her and at least say that he loved her? Mort tried to imagine being in a hospital, being hurt and sick and alone. Just thinking about it made him shiver. He’d want someone he knew to be there. Even if he didn’t like them, he’d want them to be there. 

And he wanted to say goodbye to his Dad. 

“But I can’t,” Mort said lowly. “I can’t go to the hospital. P-Pietro won’t let me anyway, even if I could.”

There was no time to dwell on this. A staccato of rapid knocks on his door made him scramble to hide the article. He folded it hurriedly, sticking it into a pocket on his belt. 

Pietro looked at him quizzically. “What time is it right now?” he asked softly. 

Wide-eyed, Mort looked around him for a clock, too thrown off to realize that Pietro knew the time already. Mortimer was the one who had lost track of time and was therefore not present for the meeting Pietro had just called. They had a job to do tomorrow night. Something about a Senator being transferred to a hospital for a bypass surgery. Mort hadn’t really listened for the first meeting either, just keeping his head up and trying to stay awake. Pietro had made them undergo a marathon drill the night before, declaring that they’d gotten soft in his absence.

As Mort glanced around helplessly, Pietro reached out and took a handful of his dreads, twisting until they pulled at his scalp. “Why don’t I give you a hint: it’s about ten minutes after I told everyone to be downstairs. Now do you know what time it is?”

He swallowed a whimper. He really didn’t need this right now. Once again, tears threatened to overwhelm him, but Pietro showed no sign of noticing or caring. He instead sneered and started to drag him down the hall. A memory of Gareth doing the same, dragging him by the hair to that damned mirror surfaced in Mortimer’s memory. Something deep inside him twisted in pain and humiliation and fury, and the fact that it was Pietro doing this to him now (because of all the fucking times to recall the worst memory of his father, this was about perfect, wasn’t it?) was more than he could bear. 

Mort resisted despite the agony in his scalp and grabbed Pietro’s wrist. “Stop it! Just – I - I – you don’t have to do this! I am fucking capable of walking there myself, just chill the fuck out!” he shouted. Mortimer swallowed hard, hating how uneven his voice was, hating how his eyes burned with the effort of holding back sobs.

“Are you really? Are you capable of doing anything, Toad?” Pietro jeered. 

Mort dug his nails hard into Pietro’s wrist, taking dark satisfaction in the sudden look of shocked pain that passed over the man’s face. For a brief second, Pietro’s eyes flashed yellow – so quickly that Mort wondered if he hadn’t imagined it. He was too angry and hurt to care. “LET ME GO!” Mort all but shrieked. He could see blood welling up around the crescents in Pietro’s skin. 

Maximoff let go of his hair and grabbed Mort’s arm, roughly shoving him off his feet. “Then get your ass in there, Toad! NOW!” The last command was more like a roar than anything else, and the ferocity in it made Mort cringe.

His rage giving way to fear, Mort attempted to get back to his feet without turning his back on the livid Pietro. He almost looked like a different person. Pietro had never snarled like that – at anybody. Shaking badly, Mort made his way to the living room. From the way everyone instantly started chatting with each other and ignoring him, they’d heard what happened. Wisely, they were planning not to comment. 

He sidled closer to Fred, neutral ground in almost any situation, and sank down to crouch on the floor. Neena was ignoring them both, talking to Dom, but Mort caught a concerned glance flick his way once or twice. He sighed, eyes submissively down as Pietro walked into the room. Mort could feel the man’s cold stare on him as Pietro massaged his wrist. 

This was going to be the longest meeting of his life.


	6. Fail With Honor

His orders had been embarrassingly and condescendingly simple, but he wasn’t about to complain. Normally it would be just a little crushing to his ego to know that while the Brotherhood were fighting the X-men upstairs, nobody was even thinking to look for where he’d vanished off to. They probably thought he’d run off. Mort actually had walked to the elevator and pressed the down button, completely unchallenged. It was downright depressing on a normal day, but right now his mind was on other things as the elevator took him down to the fourth level – the laboratory and infirmary bay. 

He hadn’t paid attention before, when Pietro had outlined the plan. But last night’s meeting had snapped him brutally to attention when he had realized exactly where they were going to attack Senator Leinhart. 

A hospital. Right now, he was going down to the lab to steal a device that would be reprogrammed to blow up part of a hospital. And as if that wasn’t sickening enough to Mortimer, the name of the hospital was Sacred Heart, located in NYC. 

Mort had asked Pietro to repeat that, just to be certain. Then he’d sat, pale and quiet for the rest of the meeting. He would have normally told Pietro that his father was there, but the way the man had been to him lately, he doubted Pietro would care. He’d tried to tell Neena, but she had actually been incensed that Maximoff was going this route at all, so much that she completely ranted over whatever he tried to interject with (obviously thinking he was attempting to stick up for Pietro, so he eventually gave up trying and just let her vent). 

The only reason she was in on it at all, she said, was because of Pietro threatening to run the bomb there and set it off himself. Neena knew that Pietro didn’t know the first damned thing about bombs and that he would be doing more damage on his own than with her help. He also knew that even if she did knock him out and lock him in the broom closet like she’d threatened, she couldn’t keep him there forever. 

Mortimer didn’t exactly know how Pietro had eventually talked her into this or what he’d promised her, but Neena was reluctantly on board. She would help with the programming of the bomb, to keep it to a precise range; though Mort could tell she’d rather not being doing this at all. “A bullet’s a hell of a lot cleaner than a fucking bomb,” she’d ranted, as they smoked on the roof. “Maximoff doesn’t want it to look like we directly targeted anybody though. The more random damage, the less likely they’ll see it as a mutant attack. It’ll raise the issue of who’s more dangerous – mutants or human terrorists. The Senator does have a lot of political enemies right now . . .” 

But it was still a fucking hospital. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t wait for him to go home and just blow up his house. A house would be easier. 

Except, Mort thought, grimacing as he stepped out of the elevator and into the hallway before the lab, they’d still be killing all the serving staff or whatever guests and family the Senator might have over at his house that night. 

He fished out the crumpled piece of paper with a trembling hand and dialed in the code to the laboratory archives. Here was where the X-men kept certain devices in quarantine, locked up to keep them out of the wrong hands. Some of them had been invented by Beast, or by their mechanic, Forge. Others had been salvaged from Prowlers or lost by MRD soldiers.

All Mort had to do was go in there, enter another code, and grab the artillery load that could essentially give a pipe bomb the same exploding force as a torpedo. He had to get it, and then hand it over to Pietro, who was going to turn it into a bomb that could easily blow up his father along with the Senator. 

He stared at the seventeenth drawer with its little keypad, a green back glow illuminating the numbers. 

And Mort abruptly and quite unexpectedly thought, Fuck this shit. 

Really, it wasn’t like Pietro was expecting him to actually succeed in anything, was it? He moved on to the next keypad and randomly typed in a code. The wrong code. It beeped a warning at him and then he went to another, and did the same thing. And then another. Eventually, there was a blaring alarm, complete with red flashing lights. Mort managed to bolt out the door to the archives before it auto-locked on him, shutting him out. He’d ditched the paper with the code on it, half hoping it was Pietro’s only copy and that no-one had memorized it. 

He heard running footsteps and darted into the main lab because it was there. Mortimer looked around frantically for some place to hide, afraid it was Beast or Storm, or worse – Wolverine. 

There were random things on the table; a mechanical collar, something that looked like a gutted Kitchen Aid mixer, elements to a water heater, and a couple of voltage testers. Mort scanned across these, looking for a cabinet he could crawl into – anything, really. The lab was almost disturbingly utilitarian; all the cabinets were too small or crowded for even someone as flexible as Mort to crawl into. He was considering stuffing himself under a table, pulling some plastic covers over himself and hoping for the best, when he heard the laboratory doors swing open.

Mort whirled around and gave a sigh of misguided relief. “Pietro – it’s you,” he said, before he could stop to think about it. Or before he could register the dark expression on Pietro’s face.

Too late, he discovered Wolverine wouldn’t have been such a terrible option after all.


	7. I Miss Who You Were

There was a camera in two corners of the laboratory; one in both alternating corners. It was blinking steadily, recording data, and Pietro was well aware of this. It was all part of the plan. Pity that everyone was too busy fighting to see this play out live, but it only worked to his advantage. 

Most of his blows had been designed to hurt, not injure, but he’d been cruelly precise where they’d landed. They had eventually curled Toad onto the floor, where Pietro finally left him. The kid was hyperventilating too hard to scream anymore and he wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon. He was truly pathetic. More likely than not, the X-men would keep him for a while rather than just throw him to the MRD. Pietro was banking on that. 

He typed hurriedly into the main computer, accessing the commands for complete shutdown of the power grid. It would be cake to simply jimmy the archives open if there was no power. If not, he had a backup plan, and its name was Freddy. Toynbee had of course delayed him a little with what Pietro could only describe as complete lack of brains (He almost wondered if Toad had done that on purpose) but it had worked out for him in the end. He’d be killing two birds with one stone tonight. 

Breathless sobbing made him glance down at the floor. Toad was trying to sit up. How cute. 

“Pietro . . . I – I . . .”

“You’re sorry, I know. I don’t have time for groveling,” Pietro said, typing away. “And by now I think you realize this means you’re officially off the team.” 

“Look . . . there’s a r-reason . . . m-my d-dad – he’s -”

“Let me cut you off right there and save you some breath. You don’t sound like you should be speaking yet. I don’t care what your reason for failing is. I’ve grown tired of it. You just lie there, be a good little Toad, and sit this one out.” 

“No.” The word was quiet, but there was an unexpected defiance in it. Pietro stopped what he was doing and stared at him. 

“Excuse me?” he said flatly. 

“I – I don’t know wh-why you’re doing this t-to me. But I-I’m not going to l-let you k-kill-” Mort’s attempt at bravado was spoiled when he lurched over and threw up, vomit tinged with red. He coughed wetly, scrubbing at his mouth with his sleeve. 

“I told you so. Keep quiet.” Pietro smirked and went back to the computer. At last, he typed in the final command and the lights went out. Pietro heard Mortimer gasping in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Pietro’s eyes had no such problems; he was very used to shadows by now. “The X-men will likely be down here in a few minutes, when they all wake up. Don’t try to follow us, Toad. When they find you, act cute. Maybe they’ll keep you as pet.” 

He followed that cutting remark with a kick that sent Mortimer sliding across the floor to hit the metal cabinets with his back. His thin wail of pain was a pleasure to hear. 

Pietro headed once more for the archives, which unfortunately – much to his irritation – wouldn’t be any easier to open without all the bells and whistles. He left before he could hear Mortimer gasp out a question, one that wasn’t entirely meant for Pietro’s ears, but pain spurred him to ask it aloud anyway. 

“Wh-What the h-hell happened to you?”


	8. Tragic Inventory

“Okay, don’t lie to me,” Forge sighed. “How bad is it?” 

All Kitty had told him was that Freddy, Pietro, and Toad had paid a visit to the archives and laboratory. He would rather she had told him that a score of thugs armed with crowbars had gone to town on the place. At least there was a possibility that something would still be left standing. She was back now, with an update, watching as he tried to rewind the video tapes for a clue. Getting the grid back online had taken an hour; Pietro had unwittingly caused massive glitches by hacking into the system.

“Well . . . Blob was there.” 

“And . . .?” Forge asked warily. “What’s the damage?”

“Um. Blob-like damage?”

“Kitty, level with me here. I’m going to be the one who has to fix it, remember? I don’t want you to sugar coat anything. I want no surprises.”

She sighed. “He ripped out the archives from the walls and from what I can tell, rolled up the entire unit like it was a veggie-wrap. It’s possible that he also fell down or maybe even rolled on it a couple of times, because it’s also flatter than a pancake. I didn’t even know you could do that to industrial steel. Then it looks like he-”

“. . . . okay, I lied. I wish you had sugar-coated like hell,” mumbled Forge, who’d gone very pale. He hadn’t known you could do that to steel either. “So there’s not really any way to tell what they stole, unless we get those camera feeds as well?

“Actually, we found this little slip of paper in there with a drawer number and a code number. I have no idea where it came from. Maybe someone dropped it?”

Forge read it and frowned. “I know what’s in there. They’re either making a bomb or . . . well, it’s high-powered artillery loads, so I can’t imagine they’re going to do anything ‘fun and festive’ with it instead. Did they drop any hints about a target?”

“No. There’s a dozen places they could target by now; we won’t know until it’s too late. They’re getting really good at covering their tracks.” 

“Maybe not. Why go to all the trouble of rolling up the archives if somebody was just going to leave this piece of paper lying around? Somebody’s being sloppy. With any luck, they were sloppy somewhere else. Okay, the cameras are rewound to the time of the Brotherhood’s attack. I’ll pause it so you can get Wolverine and the others.” 

Kitty disappeared through the wall at a dead run.


	9. Crossroads

Forge could hear Wolverine’s low growl as he watched the scene unfold. For his own part, he winced every time a blow landed, hard enough to slam Toynbee's body against the console again and again. 

Toad was obviously begging for Pietro to stop, but the sound was scrambled and it sounded eerie to hear screams that were cut off by static. Forge had switched off the volume for this part, not wanting to hear it and seeing that Pietro wasn’t talking while he doled out the beating.

They’d already witnessed what Toynbee had done in the archive-room. Even Wolverine at his crankiest had admitted there was no way anyone would screw up that brainlessly, not when they had the drawer number and correct code in their hands. 

Mortimer had been trying to stop whatever it was the Brotherhood was going to do. Some might argue that he hadn’t tried all that hard, but seeing this . . .? It was small wonder. He had appeared to be covered with bruises even before Pietro had caught up with him in the main lab. 

Forge winced as Mortimer hit the ground and curled up, breathing quick and shallow around his hurts. Pietro, unconcerned, went to the computer and started typing. Forge frowned; they were going to lose cameras any time now. 

“So, apparently what they’re doing is so bad even Toad’s tryin’ to put a wrench in the works,” muttered Logan. He was looking at Mortimer on the ground and not Pietro. “He wasn’t with them when they peeled out of here in the Jeep, was he?”

A quick flurry of typing brought up the feed from the front cameras. Forge rewound it, hoping that Toynbee hadn’t been with them. Pietro had turned to loom over Mortimer, just as the power grid had failed, videos blacking out in the lab. He had to feel for the guy; apparently the green mutant was really in over his head this time. 

While he doubted that anyone would actually murder him, Forge still didn’t like the idea of Mortimer getting another beating like that. 

He didn’t realize he’d been half-holding his breath until he saw that the Jeep only contained Blob, Domino, Avalanche and Pietro. He paused and scanned the images just to make sure. 

“So they did leave him behind,” Logan sighed. “Let’s try and find him. If the kid wants to stop them that badly, chances are he’ll tell us what the Brotherhood is up to.”

Another clue that Wolverine was disturbed by what he'd just watched; he usually didn’t call just anyone ‘kid’. Forge turned back to the camera above ground and blinked. A dark figure was moving across the back garden, limping. 

It stumbled over debris flung from the mansion roof, thanks to Avalanche’s powers, and Forge switched camera views to get a closer look. It was definitely Toynbee. In his hands he was holding something circular and metallic. Forge blew up the image and saw the collar. 

“Oh, jeez. He stole the inhibitor! We’re never going to find him with Cerebro if he wears that,” Kitty groaned.

“Yeah, it’ll take him off that map, unfortunately. But don’t worry. The inhibitor has a tracking device in it. I installed it just in case anybody wearing it gets into trouble and can’t use their powers to fend off an attack.” Forge performed another flurry of typing. 

A map appeared on the screen and a small red dot started to beep across the street lines. “He’s heading for the bus lines. He must be already wearing the collar, or about to wear it.”

“Is that portable information, or are you staying here and keeping a line open?” Wolverine asked, back to business.

“I can take it along on my laptop,” Forge said, already starting the process. 

“Then let’s go. I’ll get the van.”


	10. Forget Who You Are

It was a long walk to the hospital and it was freaking cold. Mortimer knew that seeing his breath was a very bad sign; he was barely dressed for a chilly night – but oddly enough he didn’t feel cold enough to simply drop down and sleep. Maybe the collar was already working, even at the lowest setting. He was terrified to turn it all the way up; what if he dropped down and went through some horribly painful transformation all at once? Like that guy in American Werewolf? (Mort had no desire to rip his clothes off and writhe about like some emo lycanthropic moron either, thank you very much.) 

He’d had some inkling as to what it did; Pietro had once told him that Gambit was supposed to steal the thing. Mort had swiped it, figuring he could go to the hospital and try to warn the staff, or maybe hide and watch and throw the bomb out a window or something when Pietro left. It was stupid, admittedly, but he was not exactly trained to be a hero. Nor had he read the cliff notes. All that Pietro had taught him was . . . 

Thinking about Pietro made his chest hurt, and it wasn’t just because of the punches he’d taken. Mort put him as far from his mind as he could. He had to focus on his father right now. Sure, his father didn’t care about him either, but . . . 

Cursing lowly, Mort shook his head. Apparently his brain was just going to be as unhelpful as it possibly could tonight. He dug around in his pockets for cash and came up with five bucks and a cracker; enough for a ride if he could get change. First things first though. He slipped into a public bathroom, glad it was a single toilet one for the option of locking the door. Mort took a deep breath and turned the collar up a little. He felt nothing and frowned. Somewhere he’d read his own files and it had labeled him as a class 25. Did that mean it would take longer, or did he have to have it at a higher setting? 

When ten minutes passed and he only looked a little paler, Mort bit his lip and turned the collar up three more notches. Experimentally, he tried to spit slime at the wall and swallowed it back down. He made a face and rinsed his mouth out in the sink. Ten more minutes and still nothing. Surely he’d waited long enough? 

He ground his teeth (which only looked a little less sharp), worried he was going to miss the next bus out. Well, if he ended up rolling around screaming and sprouting hair in weird places, then he’d learn from the experience, wouldn’t he? Right. 

Mort turned the notch as far as it would go and waited.


	11. A Fallacy in Your Head

Traffic was non-existent in this area of town, since Pietro didn't like to wait. He always chose the route with the least stops, the least pedestrian crossings. Usually that just meant the bad parts of town where nobody sane was walking around after dark anyway. Not wishing to attract any attention, he was obeying the posted speed limit on the way to Sacred Heart, which in itself was odd. But Neena didn’t care much to tease him about it. She’d been silent since he got back to the Jeep – without Mortimer. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t know that Pietro had kicked him off the team. The X-men had been defeated and scattered; there had been no rush to leave and no reason why Pietro couldn’t have simply carried him to the Jeep if he was unconscious. Which would also be one of the few reasons Mortimer hadn’t gone to the Jeep himself. What worried Neena wasn’t the fact that Pietro hadn’t brought Mortimer. It was the absolute lack of any explanation or even excuse as to why Mort wasn’t there. Pietro had simply gotten behind the wheel and started the Jeep. 

Surely, by now, he would have said something. 

Neena glanced at Fred, who looked back at her, appearing just as uncomfortable. She couldn’t see Dominic’s expression, as he was up front, but he too had been quiet. 

Well, if nobody else was going to step up to the fucking plate . . .

“So, Pietro . . . whatever happened to that green kid that used to hang out with us?” she asked, cynically casual. 

“Oh, he found better company, I’m sure,” was the flippant response. 

“Is he still alive?” Freddy rumbled, failing to sound unconcerned. 

Pietro turned a corner, sighing. “It hurts me that you don’t find me capable of a civilized solution to a problem, Freddy. Mort didn’t want to be with the Brotherhood anymore. So instead of creating a scene about it, I opted to let him resign. He’s back at the mansion right now, no doubt telling Wolverine how unbearably mean we’ve all been to him lately.”

Neena scowled. “And what did you do to him, Maximoff, that would get Wolverine to actually talk to him, rather than just throw him in a holding cell?”

“Nothing that any of you didn’t ask me to do a long time ago, Thurman.” There was a hint of warning in Pietro’s tone.

Taken aback, she looked again at Fred, who shrugged miserably. Obviously he was remembering his own harsh words on the subject of Toad’s usefulness. Neena rallied. “Exactly, Pietro - a long time ago! We were all exasperated with him, but that doesn’t mean we wanted him to be hurt!”

“Oh. Well, you must have said to go easy on him at some point these past few weeks. I guess I just didn’t hear you.” 

She cringed, more at the truth than at Pietro’s nasty tone. “You could have at least discussed it with us first. Mort was becoming useful to us – he’s been getting very good with sniper techniques. I’ve told you about his progress. Why else would you have asked me to teach him if you didn’t expect something out of it? This makes no sense!”

“For one, I thought it was a good idea too, until he refused to shoot who I wanted him to shoot. He’s a bit of a bleeding heart, wouldn’t you agree? Come on, Thurman, face it.” Pietro’s voice actually softened a little. “He’s not comfortable with hurting anyone, even in his own self defense. He gets captured constantly, because he doesn’t want to fight back. It’s one thing if he couldn’t defend himself, but Mortimer won’t. And you know as well as anyone else that it’s going to get him killed someday. Kicking him off the team is the nicest thing anyone could have done for him. He’s with the X-men now, and I’m pretty sure they’re not going to make him fight if he doesn’t want to.”

Neena bowed her head, once more faced with the truth in Pietro’s words. But something about the last sentence Pietro had said . . . Neena’s eyes narrowed. Mort would stay with the X-men, learn from them more than just fighting tactics. And then when all this was over, Pietro would go back and perhaps offer Mort another chance to be with the Brotherhood. A chance to be useful to the man he loved. 

Of course, he might tell Pietro to go fuck himself, but then again, who knew if he wouldn’t be in the same boat of misery with the X-men? They weren’t likely to just forgive him his past on account of a few cuts and bruises. If they alienated him enough, it wouldn’t matter to Mort which side he was on by the time Pietro came back for him. He’d jump at the opportunity to impress the devil he knew, and he’d tell Pietro everything. It was clever, she had to admit. The whole thing with Rogue had embarrassed Pietro deeply (had torn Neena’s heart out) and this was one way to break even.

Also, whether Mort went back to the Brotherhood or chose to stay with the X-men (and out of the Brotherhood’s hair) it was a win-win situation for them. Neena had to admit Mort was at least safer now.

At least she hoped so.


	12. Behind the Mirror

“Sit him up – okay. Easy.” 

The voice belonged to a female. It was soothing with a hard edge, not unlike Neena’s. It promised questions would follow once Mort opened his eyes. He felt cool tiles against his shoulders and the back of his head, heard footsteps moving around him and echoing weirdly. Mort wasn’t even aware how he’d gotten onto the floor. Last thing he knew, he’d been staring into the mirror. Waiting for – 

His eyes snapped wide open, causing pain to flare through his previously swelled eye (it had been barely healed over the past few days). When the pain cleared, he found himself looking up at a woman kneeling over him. She wore jeans, a red blazer, and her long black hair fell around her face in waves. She touched Mortimer’s cheek gently and he wondered what the deal was – why wasn’t she screaming? Most people would scream when they encountered a green-skinned freak lying insensible on the floor of a public bathroom. 

“Someone beat you up pretty bad,” she replied, able to see some degree of confusion in his expression. “Mugged you too, from the look of it. I assume you were wearing a jacket and shoes on a night like this?” 

“Uh . . . I . . .” Mugged? Mortimer looked down at his body and recoiled in shock at the sight of two bare feet - with five toes on each foot. He moved them just to make sure they were actually his. Upon inspecting his hands, he found the same recurring phenomenon; five fingers on each flesh-colored hand. “What? How the hell -” 

“How’s your head?” the lady asked, bringing his attention back. He didn’t answer, not sure what to say. As the silence grew, so did his panicked inventory of his surroundings. How long had he been out? Had this lady called the cops? He stiffened as another set of footsteps approached the bathroom door, swinging it open. A tall man walked in, with red hair and blue eyes. He was wearing a brown trench coat and Mort caught a glimpse of a gun holster at his hip. A swift look at the lady’s waist painted the same picture. 

“Are you guys cops?” he asked nervously, trying to sit up better. 

“Yes, we’re cops. That’s the answer you wanted to hear, right?” the man asked lightly. Mortimer couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. The lady sighed and shot the man a look. 

“I’m Detective Elisa Mazda; the interrogator over there is my partner, Detective Matt Bluestone,” she told Mort. “What’s your name?”

“Mortimer,” he answered without thinking. Inwardly he cursed; no matter what he looked like, his name would appear on mutant terrorist records. He hoped she didn’t ask for his last name – he’d have to make something up. And he didn’t want to lie to this lady for some reason; the thought made him squirm with guilt. 

“So what were you doing before you were attacked?” Bluestone asked. He looked pointedly at Mort’s bare feet and strange attire. “Going to a costume party?”

“Lay off, Matt. I doubt he needs a lecture on fashion about a man who still wears a trench coat and a fedora on duty.” Elisa was teasing Matt, lightly. 

Mortimer wondered if they were together and then reminded himself sharply that he had to figure out how long he’d been out. Pietro could have done something by now. Any moment, those radios on the cops’ belts could come to life, crackling with urgency. And he would have been too late. Mortimer started to try and stand up, but Elisa put her hands on his shoulders, coaxing him back down. “Where do you think you’re going?” she asked gently. “Relax. I called an ambulance. All you have to worry about is keeping calm and still until they get here.” 

“But I gotta go to the hospital!” he blurted and felt instantly stupid at Elisa’s raised eyebrow. “My dad’s there,” he explained hurriedly. “He was in a car accident. I don’t know how long I was out on this floor – I might be too late!” Mort couldn’t explain why, but he suddenly wanted to tell her everything. He tried, but it came out in a jumble of words. “He doesn’t like me and he’s my only family, so I didn’t find out until a day or two ago and I have to get there before it’s too late because something horrible might happen if I don’t – I couldn’t tell anyone he was there because they wouldn’t have listened to me anyway - and I finally was able to get to the bus station only now I don’t know how long I was out and I don’t even know what I look like right now – what if people at the hospital see me and freak out and don’t let me see my dad?” he got out in one long tormented rant. 

Elisa was blinking rapidly and she shook her head to clear it, putting her hands on Mort’s shoulders again. “Mortimer, relax,” she said again, trying to soothe him. “The ambulance will get you there faster than any bus. We’ll stay with you until they treat your injuries, then you can go see your dad. I’m sure you won’t freak out anyone in the hospital – these people have seen worse injuries every day. And if you remember anything about your attacker, I want you to call me.” She handed him a card with her number on it. 

His attacker? His attacker’s name was Pietro and he was probably going to blow up an entire hospital. But Mort was trembling, too afraid to tell her because how was he even going to start explaining that instead of some scared and beaten human, he was really a green-skinned mutant who’d fallen in with terrorists and had escaped the MRD time and again? Anything he said after that was going to get him a trip to the police station and probably a series of drug tests. And then they’d find out his name and then he really would be stuck there, a convenient distraction while Pietro finished the job. Even if he got someone to listen to him, it wouldn’t be in time to stop the Brotherhood. They’d have themselves a scapegoat and quite a few dead bodies to bury. Mort tucked the card into his pocket, unaware of how pale he looked. 

“Okay. I’ll call,” he muttered despondently. 

“In the meantime,” Elisa said, sensing he needed a distraction. “Matt can go find you some shoes and a jacket. Maybe some jeans. People have left a lot of things behind on the bus, and if years go by without a claim, those items get donated.” 

“Right, I’m sure lots of people have just randomly left their pants on a bus,” Matt sighed, but he headed toward to the station’s Lost and Found department anyway. 

“This is New York, Matt,” Elisa called after him. “That should be all I have to say.”


	13. Alone in a Crowd

The detectives had made good on their promise, staying with Mort until the nurse had applied cleaning solution to his cuts and washed off the dried blood to make sure it wasn’t hiding other injuries. She’d asked a series of questions – had he thrown up? Was there any difficulty breathing? Was he dizzy, nauseous, or confused? Were his ears ringing? Did the room make him feel too cold or too hot? Mort answered the questions carefully, lying about whether he’d thrown up. He didn’t want to be detained him any further and he kept looking out into the waiting room anxiously, as though he expected Pietro or Dominic to stroll through the lobby with grim purpose. 

If it weren’t for the presence of the cops, Mort might have bolted toward the nearest information desk. Elisa had distracted him as the nurse filled out paperwork, making small talk. Mort found her questions a great deal more pleasant, but the anxiety tying his insides into knots didn’t go away. Finally, finally, the nurse cleared him for dispatch and directed him toward the information desk. He’d put a false last name on the paperwork and he had absolutely no idea how he was going to be allowed to see his father. What if the man had requested no visitors? What if he wasn’t even conscious? (Mortimer refused to even consider the possibility that he had passed away). What last name could he possibly give that they wouldn’t check? 

He knew he should calm down; it was always possible there were other Toynbees in New York. Maybe the receptionist wouldn’t bat an eyelash upon hearing the truth. Elisa reminded him to call her again and hugged him. More surprised than anything, he returned the embrace and then shook Matt’s offered hand, muttering thanks. 

They had found jeans and a green plaid jacket for Mortimer in the lost and found bin. The jeans were a little loose on him, but he’d fixed that by putting his belt around his waist. There had been sneakers too, ones that were falling apart, but they fit more decently than shoes had ever fit him. Walking in shoes was damned weird. He’d tied his dreads back in the station restroom, trying to make himself look presentable, and he’d taken the beads out, just in case anyone still recognized the Thirteens’ colors. Mort had stared into the mirror for a half a second then, and he’d had to turn away, terrified of losing control and breaking down on the spot. He hadn’t needed to give Elisa another reason for concern. Right now, he had to at least appear okay, lest either Elisa or the nurses insist he speak to a counselor. 

Inside he was a mess, worried about his father’s reaction to seeing him and about how on earth he was going to stop Pietro. He was alone in this. Nobody was on his side, nobody knew about this. Nobody could know about this, because there would be questions he didn’t have time to answer. Mortimer walked stiffly to the receptionist’s desk and asked for Gareth Toynbee’s room. His pulse was beating too loud in his ears to hear her answer the first time, so he asked again politely. 

“Room 412, on the fourth floor. It’s just to the left of the elevator,” she repeated, looking up from her computer. Mortimer heard this time, but he stood in place, staring through her. 

Something else had caught his full attention, or rather someone else. It was a presence that appeared in his head, swirling around his thoughts like vapors. 

“Are you alright, dear?” the receptionist asked, frowning in concern. Mortimer didn’t answer. An arm firmly wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him into a sort of embrace. 

“He’ll be okay. He’s just a little overwhelmed right now,” a woman’s voice answered smoothly. It wasn’t Elisa. Mort already knew who it was, and he didn’t dare look. “His father’s in that room.”

“Oh, I see. Good luck, honey,” the receptionist said, sympathetically. She went back to typing and Jean Grey quietly led Mort away from the desk. He glanced up and his heart sank when he saw Wolverine, Storm, Cyclops, Kitty and another X-man whose name escaped him at the moment. He was the only one who tried to offer Mortimer a smile. 

“Right,” rumbled Wolverine. “Let’s go somewhere quieter and have a talk.”


	14. Guilty Morals

Mort wasn’t looking up at anyone if he could help it. Everyone looked completely pissed, and he was aware that his silence was making them more pissed, but it was hardly his fault they were asking him questions he didn’t know the answer to. 

“I told you, I didn’t exactly pay attention to what Pietro was planning. It never usually matters. He always changes the details at the last minute and I’m usually the last one to know.” 

“We’re not interested in hearing about your poor note-taking skills, Toynbee, we want to hear the gist of what he’s planning. We know that you have at least some idea of what that is,” Scott snapped. 

“I told you what I know,” Mort groaned. “I told you what he told me – which wasn’t much! He’s going to blow this place up with whatever he stole. He’s targeting Senator what’s-his-face who’s going under some kind of bypass surgery.”

“Senator what’s-his-face?! Don’t you even know who your target is?”

Mort bristled. “Does it really matter that much?! There’s only one Senator here! Are you people not going to save him if you didn’t vote for him or something?” His tone was tinged with hysteria and he was sure Wolverine was smirking. Mort wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or at Cyclops, but it put him even more on edge. 

“All we want to know,” Scott said through grit teeth, “Is whether Pietro is going to blow up the entire place or if he’s going to attack the Senator’s room. If it’s the latter, then we need to find out what that room is and head him off. Otherwise we’ll need to search the entire hospital.”

“And you think he told me? He didn’t expect me to find the collar, so when would I have been able to just walk through the lobby as I was without attracting everyone’s attention? I don’t even know what my part would have been, other than to get the artillery-thing out of the archives, and I tried to screw that up – honestly, I did!”

Wolverine sighed. “We know you did. We saw what happened after that as well. We aren’t here to grill you,” he said, giving Scott a pointed glare. “All we want is for you to give us any information you can about what they’re planning.”

“I did!” Mortimer burst out, near tears. “I told you everything I know! I’m sorry it’s not enough!”

“You think you told us everything you know, Mortimer, but you’re panicking right now,” Storm explained, trying to be soothing. “Because of that, details may have slipped your mind. Please be calm and start again. Even if Pietro didn’t tell you, could there have been anything you overheard?”

Miserable and pulse racing, he shook his head. “All I can think of right now is my Dad, and how I found out he was fucking dying from a newspaper article! If I hadn’t read the paper that day, I never would have known he was even here, and that’s the reason I’m here now trying to stop him! I don’t want Pietro to hurt anyone, I never did, but this is the first time I’ve ever been either brave or stupid enough to try and stop him! The best I could figure was trying to look for him and I don’t know, physically tackling him or something or somehow drawing attention to him -”

“Wait, stop,” Scott said, holding up a hand. “The only reason you’re here isn’t because of all the innocent people, it’s because someone you care about is in danger?” 

Mort looked at him in confused shock for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed. “Yes. I’m not a hero. I never said I was. And before you accuse me of being selfish, he hasn’t even spoken to me in six or seven years and the last thing he said to me was if I ever called him ‘Dad’ again, he would fucking beat the shit out of me. I was thirteen years old, and he had just come home, drunk, to tell me that my mom had fucking DIED in this same hospital and that it was my fault she was dead! I’m not here to make myself feel good! He’s likely going to cuss me out as soon as I try to go into his room, but I’m going to try and help him anyway because I’m the only family he’s got who still gives a damn whether or not he gets blown up!”

Scott looked at him, completely stunned. Mort found that he was shaking very hard, having never spat that much vitriol at another person, or at least not a person who could shoot him across the room with eyeball lasers. 

A figure suddenly sat between him and Cyclops – Mort recognized the X-man who’d been wearing goggles. He’d heard Kitty call him Forge and had been mildly distressed when he’d left the room, with Kitty and Jean accompanying him. Storm, Wolverine and Cyclops were not exactly calming presences on their own. Forge smiled at him gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. Mort just looked at him helplessly, needing reassurance and at the end of his emotional rope. He just needed to see his Dad, and get him to safety, and if the X-men wanted to save the hospital down to the last speck of bacteria, then he’d gladly step out of their way. It wasn’t in his ability to be a hero right now and he hated that Scott was expecting him to be. 

“I’m sorry,” he got out, anyway, because he didn’t want anyone to be angry with him right now on top of everything. “I want to stop Pietro. I don’t want him to hurt anyone ever again, I swear. But all I can do is save my Dad. That’s all I can do, and it’s better than nothing, so that’s why I’m here right now.” He looked down, crying silently, unable to bear it if Forge suddenly looked on him with the same disgust that Cyclops held for him. 

Arms wrapped around him, pulling him close to a warm body. “Nobody’s mad at you,” Forge said quietly. “Nobody should be. You came to help your father, despite what he said or did to you. You tried to stop the Brotherhood, and your actions at least left us some clue as to what they stole. And even after taking a beating from Quicksilver, and then undergoing a complete inhibitor-modification, you’re still here. That takes a lot of strength and a hell of a lot of courage. Honestly I’m shocked you’re still standing.” 

There was a muffled sob against Forge’s shoulder. “I wish I could do more. I wish I knew more. I was never any good at this sort of crap – he never trusted me and now I can’t help you stop him!”

“You’ve done more than a lot of people would have. And it’s probably good you’re not good at this – hurting people I mean. It says a lot about you.” Forge pressed his cheek against Mort’s temple, just holding the distraught younger man. “Jean’s scanning for the Brotherhood right now and Kitty’s keeping a lookout as well. We’ll find them before they do anything. I’m pretty sure they don’t even know we’re aware of what their target is, so we’ve got an advantage – they won’t be expecting us to be here. It’s nearly nine o’clock, and visiting times are almost over except for family, so that’ll thin down the crowd a bit and make it easier -”

Mort suddenly lifted his head. “What did you say?” he asked urgently, remembering something. 

“It’s . . . nine o’clock?”

“Quarter to eleven, that’s what he said to Neena up on the roof. They were smoking and I walked out on the roof and Pietro stopped talking, but I remembered him saying that. Because of how fast he shut up. Usually he’d go on like I wasn’t there for anything unimportant.”

“Okay, so we have time then. That’s good.” Forge was still absently stroking Mort’s back as he thought. He pulled back slightly to look at him. “I’m glad you remembered that,” he said, and there was such a warm tone to his voice that Mortimer couldn’t help but smile. Forge reached into his pouch and pulled out an energy bar and a small bottle of Gatorade. “You should drink and eat something. The collar’s very hard on your body depending on what level you turn it up to, and you’re going to need your strength. 

Mort nodded and took the offered items with only slightly trembling hands. 

Wolverine gave an order to Scott to go assist Jean with visual contact and Storm to take to the east entrance of the hospital. He would patrol the lower level garages, just in case Pietro was planning to blow up the entire building. The Brotherhood had taken enough artillery to accomplish such a feat, though it wasn’t certain they would use all of it for one job. For all anyone could guess, they might be planning to use some of it for a precision strike or to knock out an entire Hospital wing. 

“And Forge,” Wolverine addressed him, tone surprisingly gentle. “Why don’t you take Mort up to see his father?”

Forge blinked, astonished and Mort nearly inhaled the rest of his energy bar. He coughed hard, and then swallowed properly. Wondering if his presence was unwelcome for such a private affair, Forge started to protest, but the words died in his throat when Mort looked up at him hopefully. 

“That okay with you?” he asked, just to make sure he was reading Mortimer’s expression right. 

“I . . . I don’t want to go by myself really. I didn’t have the option before. Please?”

Forge found himself smiling. “Sure.”


	15. Color of White

He hung back in the doorway, out of the light, stomach twisting as the nurse bent over the bed to talk in her professionally serene voice. How was it nurses could be so fucking calm in all situations? Mort was struck with a sudden cowardice. He wanted to back away, to go find Wolverine and ask if he couldn’t just help find the damn bomb. It would be easier than this. The nurse gave them a reassuring smile that he didn’t notice as she walked out past them.

There was silence inside the room and the X-man behind him put a hand on the small of his back. He flinched away from it, not expecting to be touched, and the action sent him inside anyway. 

“Sorry,” Forge murmured, following. Mort offered him a sheepish smile. The man was only trying to help, he knew, but nothing about this was sending him warm fuzzy feelings. The last time he’d seen his father, Gareth had beaten him nearly unconscious. Over a fucking pizza slice. 

But being afraid was ridiculous, because he wasn’t going to beat Mort again. The realization came as soon as he saw the bed and its occupant. Rather than give him relief, his heart sank further than he ever thought it could. At first sight, he wondered if he had entered the wrong hospital room. But no, that was his father . . .

Gareth looked like a stick figure. He was gaunt, pale, face riddled with sores, a large healing scar on the side of his head. His eyes were watery and dim as he squinted to see who had visited him. Taking small hesitant steps, trembling, Mort went to his bedside. He glanced at his own hands, wanting to make sure he was still normal. Because this would be the perfect fucking time for the collar to fail, wouldn’t it? 

His father let out a gurgling gasp and shifted in the bed. Mort didn’t dare look, afraid to see him recoiling – because really, he wouldn’t be able to handle that right now. But his hands were clasped instead and he was pulled closer. 

“Mortimer?!” Gareth managed weakly. “My god, boy, what on earth -- ?”

Tears pricked Mort’s eyes even as they slid unchecked out of his father’s. He didn’t know what to say. 

“Have you taken the cure? Is that how?” his father went on, looking over his son’s ‘normal’ appearance. “Did it hurt?”

“N-No. It wasn’t the cure,” he answered. Did that really matter right now? Whether he was cured? Mort pushed those thoughts down firmly. “It was . . . something else.” And yes, it had hurt. Quite a lot. But he wasn’t going to tell Gareth that. “It-It . . . was worth it.”

“. . . . I’m . . . I’m not so far gone as to believe saying I’m sorry will fix everything,” Gareth said, still holding his hands. “I don’t have the words that will make what I did alright. I had someone to go home to after your mother died. I had you. And I chose to fucking drink it all away.” 

“There . . . there really aren’t any,” Mort said, and he winced at the resigned devastation in his father’s face. “But it’s nice to hear you try,” he offered. “And I’m here n-now."

Gareth tried to pull Mort closer, starting to hitch. Mort hugged him carefully, able to feel all his bones and afraid of hurting him, but his father embraced him with a strength that belied his appearance.

Mort rested against him, trying to recapture the feelings he had when he was smaller, before this rift had appeared between them. He could barely even recall what they were, but his father smelled the same and that was a small comfort in itself.

"If I hadn’t read the paper, I wouldn’t have known,” he said, after his father had become quiet. 

“It was a stupid accident. I wasn’t even drunk. The other driver was – he took off. They’re still looking for him. I found another job with insurance, so that pays the hospital bills. You won’t be saddled with anything.” 

“Saddled . . .?”

Gareth paused for a long moment. “Mortimer, I’m not pulling out of this.”

“Don’t say that, of course you will. I’ll visit, if you want me to. Every day. And when you go home I can come with and cook meals for us. I’m not bad with cooking, really.” 

“Mort,” his father sighed. “The accident destroyed my liver. I’m an alcoholic and I’m old, which means they’re not going to give me a new one. I’m on life support and that’s not the way I want to continue living.” 

His eyes widened. “No, Dad, you can’t--” he flinched as the word came out, but Gareth only squeezed his hands comfortingly. Mort swallowed and squeezed back, feeling useless. “I thought I was saving your life. By – by visiting. I mean . . .” 

Mort knew he wasn’t making any sense, but the words tumbled out and his father made no comment, only watching and listening to him. “I fell in with a really bad group of people when I left home. And from there, an even worse group. I’ve messed up so much, I don’t even know where to go after this.” 

Voice breaking, Mort explained everything. It wasn’t a confession he wanted to make, but he was utterly compelled to. He embellished nothing, telling the truth. Mort was already lying about his appearance, he wasn’t about to lie about anything else. 

And Forge listened as well, guiltily. He wasn’t sure if he should have left or not, but it became clear that he was needed still when Mort begin to hitch – unable to go on past a certain point. Before he could tell Gareth about the current threat to the hospital, Forge moved forward and gently shushed him, pulling him slightly away from the bedside. 

“Not yet,” he murmured in Mort’s ear. “You don’t have to tell him yet. I’m sorry, but it’s best not to.” Mort could unwittingly start a panic, and that wouldn’t be a good idea.

The younger man shivered against him, nodding. Forge looked at Gareth and was startled to notice the old man gazing at him. “You taking care of him now?” Gareth asked bluntly. 

“Um . . .” 

“You be good to him now. I might not be able to get out of this bed, but you better be damned good to him.” Gareth’s face went from stony to a sly smile. He gave Forge a wink. 

“Dad,” Mort sputtered, peeking over Forge’s shoulder. “It’s really not what you – I mean, he’s – well, I am, but -”

“Boy, there comes a time in your life when you just don't give a fuck. Really, I don't. You deserve some happiness, no matter a tired old man’s views – me or God’s. And really – it’s not like I haven’t broken just about every damn rule in the Bible since your mother died. I’ve caused you enough pain, and yet you’re here, comforting me and making me proud. 

"Now you told me about this Pietro fellow, and he’s treated you wrong lately – that much I can tell. But with all the people you’ve run into, all the horrible things I’ve said, you’ve still grown up into a decent man. Must be from your mother’s side, because you sure as hell didn’t get that from me.” 

Mort could do no more than let his tears spill over and he hid his face in Forge’s shoulder. He looked up again after a few moments, wiping at his face and gently pulled away from Jon to sit at his father’s bedside again. “I . . . I really make you proud? Even with everything I told you?”

“You made mistakes, Mort, but they were yours to make. You learned from them. I learned from mine too, but the difference between us is that you’re eventually leaving this hospital.” 

“Dad, please – please there has to be a way we can help you.” 

“Sometimes, boy, there isn’t. There’s nothing they can do for me here. But I got to see you, and that’s a hell of a lot more than I thought I’d ever get.” 

“But what if I find a healer? In Genosha maybe – we can find help.”

“Unless you know of a mutant that can regenerate organs, I don’t think so. If there even were such a mutant power, then Senator Leinhart next door wouldn’t be passing so many legislatures against them. Not if they could just give him a new heart.”

Mort felt his blood chill. “Senator Leinhart? Dad, how do you even know that?” 

“Oh, the nurses here like to talk when they think the patients are asleep. Even without that, I would know there’s a big-shot Senator here. I’ve seen black-suited men walking up and down the halls, talkin’ away on their cell phones. They always go to the next room – I can hear the door opening and shutting constantly.” 

Mort gave Forge a very panicked look. 

“Well, I bet we know which floor the Brotherhood will be on,” Forge breathed, and quickly got out his cell phone.


	16. Ticking By

“So how exactly are we going to infiltrate this floor? It’s swarming with agents,” Neena muttered, lowering her binoculars. She could see the service men from the windows from her rooftop position. 

Pietro had never really told them how he was going to slip into the hospital sight-unseen. He’d only said that he would do it himself and no, he wouldn’t get caught. Cameras were of no concern to him, even hi-tech ones with high enough shutter speed to capture all aspects of his running form. By now security personnel would know to account for mutant powers such as speed and teleportation while reviewing the footage. Neena didn’t like being kept in the dark and she was trusting Pietro less and less. 

So she’d snuck a tiny little camera of her own into his Bluetooth earpiece. So far Pietro hadn’t noticed. He had wanted to keep contact open between all lines since leaving the X-men’s mansion (and after he’d brutally expelled Mort from the team) so there was little chance of him taking the earpiece off. 

It made talking with Fred and Dom difficult with Pietro listening in. Neena could tell the others were unsettled by all of this – Pietro was acting damned weird. He’d always at least told Neena every aspect of the plan. But he was being frustratingly vague about the bomb’s delivery. Now she knew how Mort felt. 

Poor kid. She hoped the X-men were at least being kind to him. 

Neena adjusted the small screen, watching Pietro as she casually talked to him. He was in a bathroom in the lower garage, Lord knew how he’d got there and whether he’d avoided cameras. He seemed unflappable as ever as he inspected himself in the mirror, letting his duffel bag drop gently to the tiled floor. 

“So I really don’t understand why ‘Jersey Shore’ is such a big thing. Everyone’s a dick. Even the girls.” 

“I know, but they get paid more if they act awful. That’s reality TV for you,” Pietro answered, looking at his reflection from all angles. “Did you hear one of them had a kid?” 

“Yeah. Snooki. Same day Neil Armstrong died. Most people are saying it was a bad trade.” 

“Who knows, maybe the kid will outclass his mom."

"So he'll be the first man to set foot on her home planet?" Neena smirked.

"Hey, stranger things have happened.” 

Neena was about to comment, keeping one eye on the video screen, but Pietro did something that made her voice die. His reflection rippled and then changed. And the true face that stared at its own reflection now made her heart constrict. She rallied magnificently. “Outclass his mom, huh? I hear she doesn’t want to actually take care of the kid. Gonna hire a nanny to do ‘the gross stuff’.” 

“What, like diaper changing? I guess I don’t blame her, but that’s pretty shallow. I wouldn’t mind that stuff if I had a kid.” Still Pietro’s voice. But the new figure touched her stomach in a very sympathetic gesture. 

“Really?” Neena asked, managing to scoff. “You wouldn’t change a diaper with a gun pointed at your head.” 

“True,” Pietro’s voice said. Mystique smiled at herself and then changed again, into a black-suited man, complete with sunglasses. The man picked up the duffel bag and started out of the bathroom, starting to walk up to the lobby level. “Hey, I’m heading in. I gotta be quiet, but keep the lines open.” 

“Yeah, sure.” Neena watched the video. Everyone either ignored the man or stared curiously, but nobody moved to stop him. She had no way to warn Fred or Dominic. 

Oh, fuck. Petrakis . . . 

Neena almost groaned aloud. This was going to absolutely suck explaining.


	17. Trip the Wire, Dodge the Glass

“Does he have any idea how freaking unhelpful that is?” Forge grumbled, shutting off his cell phone. Mort looked at him, head tilted questioningly. 

“Is he coming up here?”

“He was following a trail down in the lower garages, but he wants me to go next door and say ‘Hi, so is there any explosive devices in the room, because somebody might just plant one in the Senator’s room tonight’ to a bunch of secret service men and somehow NOT get my ass handed to me.” 

“What? Why you? I mean, why do you have to go? They’ll probably lock you up for life!” Mort fretted. 

“Explosive device?” Gareth questioned. “Someone’s going to blow up the Senator? Well, I never voted for him, but still . . .”

“Dad.” Mort looked away from him to Forge again. “Seriously, though, he wants you to go alone? I’ll come with you.” 

“You’re both going to poke a nest of hornets if you just go over there by yourselves. Why not call the police? Or hospital security? You can do it anonymously. That’s the only benefit I can think of for all these damn cell phones,” suggested Gareth. He paused then, looking upset with himself. “. . . . Jesus, I sound crotchety. When did that happen?”

Mort tried and failed not to smile. “Look, I’m going with him, Dad. No matter what happens, I can’t let Pietro do this. He moves too fast for security to catch up with – that’s his power.” 

Gareth frowned, but nodded. Mort felt a pang, wishing he could call the nurse to move him to a safer place, but he couldn’t – there was too much equipment to take apart and hook back up, and the nurse wouldn’t do it without him explaining everything first. The best chance his father had was if he and Forge confronted Pietro and at least stalled long enough for Wolverine and the others to get there. 

Trying to swallow his fear, Mort squeezed his fathers’ hand and walked to join Forge at the doorway. “Well. I’ve been in MRD prisons before. They’re not so bad once you get used to them,” he said, morosely. 

“You aren’t going to be put in prison,” Jon assured him, smiling. Mort glanced into blue eyes and he couldn’t help but feel better. Braver, even. 

The door next to them opened, allowing a woman in a checkered suit to walk out. She looked like an aide, and she frowned when she saw them. “What are you doing here? Are you with the press?” she demanded. 

“Um . . .” 

“Yeah,” Forge said. “We, uh, wanted to know the Senator’s thoughts on his surgery.” 

“How did you even know this is the Senator’s room? Hey!” She shouted at a passing nurse. “Somebody’s been flapping their lips; these guys know what room the Senator’s in!”

“Well, everybody certainly knows now!” Gareth commented sharply from inside the room. Mort closed his eyes, wishing he were invisible. So this was what it felt like to be embarrassed by your parents. Smiling despite himself, he stepped behind Forge to quietly shut the door between his father and the hallway, hearing Gareth's tsk of annoyance as he did so. 

The woman paid no heed to this, snapping at the nurse – still utterly professional in the face of bitchiness – and threatening all manner of lawsuits against the hospital. Forge grabbed Mort’s wrist and moved swiftly toward the Senator’s room, pulling them both inside. 

In only three seconds, four guns were pointed at their face. 

“That was a singularly stupid move, gentlemen. We could hear Clarissa outside. You just stay right there while we call security.”

Frightened, Mort pressed against Jon’s side. The X-man had his hands raised peacefully and was talking fast, still clutching onto his role as a small-time magazine reporter and claiming they meant no harm. “We don’t even have a camera. I agree, that would be incredibly nosy, not to mention rude. But we just wanted to hear from him that he’s in good spirits, that’s all.” 

“Instead you’ve landed yourselves in jail.” 

“Oh come on, for what? He looks entertained at least. Bet he’s tired of the thirteen channels on TV, huh Senator Leinhart?”

“Actually, I get cable in this room,” the Senator remarked. Mort peered at him from around Forge. He was a small yet rotund man, slightly balding with a sharp nose, which poked just over the blankets pulled up past his chin. “I’ve been watching Jersey Shore. It’s awful.” 

“I’ve never watched it,” Mort replied to him, trying to ignore the guns. "Heard it's getting cancelled, though."

Leinhart beamed cozily. “That's the best news I've heard all night.”

“Alright, you’ve had your interview. Satisfied? Now sit down and shut up until security gets here,” snapped one of the men. He put his gun away at least, as did two of the others, leaving only one weapon pointing at both Mort and Forge. The door opened again and another man walked in, sporting a duffel bag and a Bluetooth headset. He had light brown skin and Long Island features, and was slightly heavyset himself. He stopped when he saw Forge and Mort.

“That had better be my meatball sub,” Senator Leinhart spoke up, craning his neck to get a look at the bag.

“Sir, who are these men?” the man asked, nervously fingering the strap of the bag. 

“None of your concern, it’s being taken care of. Now about that sandwich . . . I swear this hospital food is killing me.” 

The man’s face twitched and his fingers tightened around the strap. He looked nervous and once more he looked searchingly at Mort and Forge. “I recognize him. He’s one of the X-men,” the man said. “A mutant.” 

Mort stiffened as all the guns came out again. Forge did as well, raising his hands again. “Why don’t you give the senator his sandwich? Or didn’t you get it for him?” he asked, coolly. Mort could swear the man had broken out into a light sweat.

“Yes, I sent you out nearly an hour ago, Clyde. Surely there’s a Quizno’s in this town somewhere.”

“Are you a mutant?” one of the service men asked Forge, a hard edge to his voice.

Before he could answer, a voice flitted through their minds, a sharp warning and a name that neither of them expected. Mort surprised even himself – not wasting any time. He charged ‘Clyde’, knocking the man back against the window and squeezing his wrist hard enough to make him drop the bag. Clyde threw a hard punch which clipped Mort on the ear, but he grabbed the bag and slammed Clyde in a vicious uppercut.

It was heavier than any duffel bag containing sandwiches should have been and Clyde reeled before kicking Mort hard in the midsection. The bag flew up and landed on the Senator’s stomach, causing the man to whuff in surprised pain. He eagerly reached for the bag and started to open it, anticipating food even as chaos reigned around him. It was more entertaining than anything on TV, for damn sure.

Forge had managed to knock one of the service men down, hurting his hand in the process, but he could do nothing about the other two who now had their weapons trained on Mort. They didn’t appear to want to shoot Clyde, though, and Clyde was getting the upper hand. He grabbed Mort by the shirt front and roughly undid the inhibitor collar, taking skin along with it and causing the younger man to gasp in pain. The effect was quicker than it had been to contain his powers. His skin started to green and he cried out in pain as the muscles in his limbs began to shift. Clyde held him up triumphantly, so the others could see him proven right, but then the Senator gave a yell of outrage. 

“This isn’t Quizno’s! What is all this junk? Where’s my sandwich?” 

Mort used the distraction to spit a wad of slime into Clyde’s face. The man dropped him, clawing at his face. Wolverine, Scott and Jean were beside Forge in the next instant, Scott shooting out the window with a laser and Jean pulling the guns neatly out of the agents’ hands to float out of reach. Forge made a wild grab for the bomb on the bed and ran for the window, throwing it as hard as he could. Jean used her powers to send it farther out, above the other buildings and in ten seconds, there was an explosion that rattled the windows. Several screams and shouts echoed down the corridor from other patients and nurses who’d witnessed the near-miss. 

Getting up painfully, Mort held onto the wall for support as his body regained his former powers all too quickly. Clyde had simply shifted his face around to let the slime fall off and the hardened mold hit the ground in a perfect cast of Clyde’s face. “Idiots,” the man hissed. “Mutants weren’t supposed to be involved in this!” 

He snatched at something within his jacket and aimed a gun at the Senator, intent on finishing the job one way or the other. Mort grit his teeth and twisted his body, delivering a kick that sent the man through the gaping window. He fell to his side, gasping as his body screamed and Forge went to his side immediately, trying to help him. 

Outside the window, an owl screeched and flew away, even as the agents searched the street for Clyde’s body. There was no sign of him and nonplussed, they turned back to confront the X-men. 

“What the HELL just happened in here?” the same woman from before demanded, before anyone could say a word. In one hand she held a sandwich from the cafeteria, in the other a cell phone which she was rapidly dialing on. “Security is on their way, I hope you all have a damned good lawyer! Otherwise you will be in jail, for a very long time!” she shouted, marching right up to Wolverine until they were nose-to-nose. 

“Nothing happened,” Jean answered, as Forge helped Mort stand up. Every one of his limbs felt as though needles of fire were lancing through them and Forge was practically supporting all his weight as he helped him out of the room. “Security is on their way to a different location – to see where the rock that broke your window was thrown from. They’ll tell you that later. You were bringing the Senator his dinner and have heard nothing. Aside from that, none of us were actually here. You couldn’t recall our faces, even if you tried. Have a nice night, and good luck with your surgery tomorrow, Senator Leinhart.” Jean left, Scott and Wolverine following close behind.

“My word. Ah. Thank you, young lady.” The Senator blinked as his nonplussed aide handed him his food. “Clarissa, who were those people? Were they from TV?”

“I don’t know,” she said blankly. “You should eat though. You can’t eat for another twelve hours until the surgery tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot how hungry I was.” The Senator unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and then looked up. “Hey, the window’s broken. How did that happen?” 

Several confused guesses came forth from the other four people in the room, but not one of them even came close.


	18. The Way Home

He didn’t know what awaited him when he returned. Perhaps anger. Definitely some anger at least. Neena would be pissed, Dom would be cold or petulant. Maybe both. Mort would probably be the only one actually happy to see him. 

It would take a lot of work regaining their trust, but they would understand eventually. They would have to understand – Father had needed him. And this time, he could tell them everything. No more secrets – no more missions if they didn’t want to. They didn’t need Genosha; they could go anywhere else – there were lots of mutant-friendly places in the world yet. Like Greece – wouldn’t Dom love that? 

Pietro raced over the water, heart singing. He’d left a little earlier than Father had expected him to, and he felt guilty for it, but he’d been cleared to leave and damn it, he’d wanted to go since this morning. Father would forgive him that much at least. 

He was going _home._


	19. Deal With the Devil

The figure had landed silently on the fire escape, their every move a calculated step – designed not to give away their position. He watched as their body shifted, then ran with astonishing speed and agility up the steps to the roof. Beside him, Neena carefully trained her gun and Fred tightened his fists. Dominic had seen the video feed – he’d had to, in order to believe what she’d told them. 

He knew who this figure was now. He knew how long she’d been pretending to be him. The only thing that kept him from killing her in cold blood was the fact he didn’t know why. Rage choked him as Pietro’s form approached, and he was slightly vindicated to see the usual smile (the smile that bitch had no right wearing so easily, fooling him so well with) drop off Mystique’s face. 

“We know who you are,” Neena said. “Drop the act.” 

She looked at them coolly and obeyed, Pietro’s features disappearing as her own blue skinned face fluidly rearranged itself. “Well, this is a little early, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. Senator Lienhart is alive still, thanks to Toad.” 

“You think I give a shit what Toad did, compared to you?!” Dominic snarled. He stepped forward, intent on seeing if he could actually leave a fist-shaped crater in the middle of her head. 

Mystique backflipped, her foot catching him under the chin. The blow sent him reeling back as she put a slightly safer distance between them. Dominic didn’t give her the satisfaction of rubbing his sore jaw. “Too scared to fight?” he snapped, seeing red.

“Lady with a baby,” Neena informed him. “She won’t take any risks. How many months, Raven?”

That gave Dominic pause. He wasn’t about to kill a pregnant woman, no matter what she’d done. Mystique looked surprised, then glowered. “It’s none of your business. I would have been able to keep the baby to myself this time-“

“If it hadn’t been for us meddling kids and our stupid Toad. We get the idea,” Fred rumbled, pulling a face. Dominic could practically hear Mort’s indignant response to that, but the kid wasn’t here. He felt a pang of regret. Pietro never would have wanted to leave him behind. 

“Magneto and I had a deal! Get rid of that little leech on your team, and see to it that he joined the X-men. Mortimer will come back to you – to Pietro - once he discovers the truth, and you’ll have more information on Xavier’s school. That part was easy enough. He also wanted me to kill Senator Leinhart in an apparent terrorist attack, that way he couldn’t become a martyr for his cause. You have no idea of what horrors that man is allowing to be unleashed on us all!” 

“Same horrors as usual, I imagine,” Neena deadpanned. “There’s always going to be a Senator who’s going to ‘unleash horrors’ upon us, Raven. The Senate consists of horrible bald little cockroaches that have nothing better to do. Now give us some credit - what was Magneto really trying to do?”

Mystique looked at her appraisingly. “You really are smarter than Magneto thinks you are.” 

“Gee, thanks.”

“He wanted a distraction. He wanted people to look at a senseless tragedy of a shattered hospital; so many dead – sick children, recovering patients, visiting families and friends, staff members. An entire wing of people dead due to a non-mutant’s actions. The bodyguard I chose wasn’t Caucasian, so his actions wouldn’t necessarily have been explained away as a ‘mental illness’ by the media.”

Neena grimaced. “So he was hoping everyone would be too busy retaliating with hate crimes on other minority groups to notice what the mutants were doing. Nice.” Her tone dripped poison. Dominic wasn’t trusting himself to speak. Had Pietro known about this plan? “So what were the mutants going to be up to, if everything had worked?” 

“Now that I can’t tell you,” Mystique grinned. “As it is, I’ll be going underground for a bit until things have calmed down.” She finally glanced at Dominic. “He didn’t have any idea I was here,” she said, almost flippantly. “Or what I was doing. As far as Pietro knows, you’ve all been wondering where he is.” 

Dominic swallowed. He wanted to believe her, but he wasn’t sure he could. “He didn’t know you were here - taking his shape?”

“I can’t imagine he’d agree to such a thing, given certain attributes of yours in---“ Mystique had to dance back hurriedly out of reach. Petrakis could only see red and he was marginally glad later that Fred’s hand had stopped him. She gave him an unreadable look, backing toward the edge. “Well, it seems I’m no longer welcome here. Tell Pietro I said ‘hello’. He should be returning tonight.” 

Once again an owl, Mystique took flight and soon became indistinguishable from the horizon. 

“. . . . we should go get Mort,” Neena muttered, putting her gun away. 

“No,” Dominic said softly. His teammate glared at him. 

“And why the hell not? I know we fucked up by not stopping it from happening in the first place – we never should have let Piet- dammit, her - start being so hard on him! I mean, yeah, the kid needs to toughen up, but what else was she doing to him that we didn’t let ourselves see?” Neena’s voice wavered and Dominic actually looked at her. She was upset and he shouldn’t have been surprised; Neena had always had a soft spot for Toad. Maybe because he was just a kid and also, maybe because he’d started out life with visible obstacles, like she had. 

“He’s worthless sometimes,” Freddy said lowly. “But he’s ours. And shit, I wish we woulda figured that out a hell of a lot sooner.” 

Dominic sighed. “At least until Pietro comes back, we should leave him in the care of the X-men.” Neena’s face hardened, but Dominic cut her off before she could berate him. “Do you really think this is about getting secrets from the X-men? If Magneto wants him gone, do you think he’ll stop with sending Mystique? Magneto deliberately targeted him. Mortimer cannot protect himself with the few skills he has, and we have only proven that we cannot protect him either. Perhaps the X-men can?” 

Neena thought back to when she had been training Mortimer to use guns. Mystique had taken him on a mission and demanded that he kill, knowing full well that he would not. She had punished him for it – they all had seen the bruises, and even then Neena had wondered if it all hadn’t been an elaborate set up to convince Toad that he didn’t belong with the Brotherhood. Had Mystique been hoping he’d leave on his own? If he had, there was no guarantee he’d have gone to the X-men. So maybe Magneto’s plan had been to simply get rid of him?

“Maybe Dom has a point,” Fred conceded. “Maybe the kindest thing we can do is to let Mort stay with the X-men. Long as they treat him right. If they turn him over to the MRD . . .” Fred pounded a fist into his palm with a meaty thud. 

“I’m sure they won’t,” Neena muttered. She longed to contact Rogue and make sure, but that might look bad. “He’s been kind of a mess lately. And he’s just a kid. Even Wolverine’s got to have a heart somewhere in that metal structure.” 

There was silence among them, and after a while, Dominic broke it. 

“Let’s go home.”


	20. Elegy

Gareth Toyenbee died on a Monday night. 

They’d called from the hospital Monday morning to tell him that Gareth’s health was ‘declining’, (and Mort had been oddly grateful to get the sort of call everyone dreaded, because no-one realized not getting one was so much worse) and he’d borrowed the collar, letting it work slowly this time. Hank’s orders. Funny, how everyone hovered over you, when someone else was dying. Forge had let him borrow dark pants and a white shirt and he’d bound his dreadlocks with a leather cord so they couldn’t get in his face. Someone told him he looked nice as he got in the cab, he wasn’t sure who. He was sure he’d smiled at them, even if it was a little mechanical. 

If anyone thought that he should be going into that hospital room as the mutant he was, they were kind enough not to say so out loud. Mort was aware he was presenting a lie to his dying father, but even with the privacy of sterile curtains surrounding a bed Mortimer could not bear to take the collar off. For one, it would hurt like hell and his father didn’t need to see that. For two . . . Mortimer wasn’t brave enough to find out whether Gareth would still accept him. Nothing could make him forget his father’s reaction to Mortimer’s mutation. No matter how many times Gareth apologized, it could not erase those memories. Memories that had torn down Mort’s self-worth, and had driven him to seek love wherever a crumb was offered. 

But there was that acceptance, at least. His dad didn’t care if he was gay, which Mort was going to call just as good (if not better) as not caring whether he was still green and slimy without the inhibitor on. The only problem was that Gareth had absolutely fixated on the idea that Forge was his boyfriend. All that week, Gareth had peppered him with questions – ranging from mild to embarrassingly blunt. Today he shakily handed Mort an article he’d ripped out of an Alternative Lifestyle magazine on how to ‘spice up’ his love life. 

“Don’t let the nurses see I gave you that – you’re not supposed to rip stuff out of magazines around here. It’s frowned upon, apparently. And you should have seen the look they gave me when I asked for that title. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell them it was for you.” 

“Dad . . .” Mort didn’t even know his face could burn this hot.

“Read that fifth one down – that technique got the most positive reviews.” 

“Oh my god, Dad.” Mortimer covered his eyes, though he was smiling. 

“What? You’re old enough to handle it. If you’re going to get married and settle down, try to make sure it’s in Vermont, because that’s the place that’s had legal gay marriage on the east coast for the longest time. So there should be less bullshit. But if you want to go west, I’d recommend California, because they’re really tolerant over there and they’re supposed to have all the fun stuff. Okay?”

“. . . okay?” he said, a little helplessly, tucking the clipping into his shirt pocket. 

“I know it’s awkward talkin’ about all this. I’m not tryin’ to rush you, but I just want to know that you’re gonna be happy and have someone waiting for you. I uh . . . I left you the house and the money I had left in my accounts. It ain’t much, but it’s somethin’, and you can sell the house if you want.” 

“Dad, I’m . . . it’s okay.” Mort took Gareth’s hand suddenly, feeling desperate. 

It all seemed so easy when the X-men swooped in to save people. The people they wanted to save generally stayed alive for longer than half a week. The doctors had confirmed what Gareth said when Mort asked them privately, that there was no hope for recovery. Jon had stayed up with him through the worst nights, when Mort couldn’t keep a brave face on anymore. Small wonder his father thought the man was his boyfriend; wherever Mort turned, he always seemed to be there to talk to or offer quiet companionship. That or Mort had taken to following him around like a lost duckling and Jon was simply tolerating him out of pity. Everything had been such a mess with him, he honestly didn’t know. 

“Mort, I’m . . . I think I’m ready to go. I don’t like this either. I wish we had more time.” Gareth coughed for a length of time and drank the water Mort held up for him. “That Pietro fellow isn’t giving you any more trouble, is he?” He managed eventually. 

“No. I haven’t heard from him at all.” 

“Good. It’ll keep that way, I hope. You just stick with that Institute, and I’ll think you’ll be fine. You’re boyfriend’s a mutant, ain’t he?” 

Mortimer looked up sharply. “What? I – I mean . . . yeah, I guess,” he stammered, forgetting to deny he had a boyfriend. “Is it okay?”

“Of course it is – long as he makes you happy. I wouldn’t care if you still were a mutant either.” He drew in a startled breath and his father looked at him with a small measure of alarm. “Shit, Mort, did you not know that? If you’d had come to visit me that night still green as a cucumber, I would have been happy all the same. Confused as to how the hell they let you in, but I wouldn’t have turned you away. Aw, kid . . .” Mort had started hitching and he leaned into his father’s embrace, muttering apologies.

“Most kids freak out just telling their parents they’re gay,” Gareth muttered, sounding confused as he held him. “You didn’t even bat an eyelash admitting that.”

“Everything fucked up after I turned _green_ ," Mort got out, trying not to sound bitter. “Being gay wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“Right . . . I can see that. Shit. You know if I actually make it to heaven, your mom’s gonna bust out a left hook and knock me straight down to hell, don’t you?” 

For some reason, Mortimer couldn’t help laughing through his tears. 

It was about eleven o’clock at night that Gareth’s heart stilled. He’d closed his eyes some time earlier, falling asleep and Mortimer had simply kept vigil, not leaving his side. One of the nurses had snuck him a cup of coffee and a donut and he’d crumpled the cup and wrapper, hiding it beneath all the other trash so she wouldn’t get in trouble. His father's death was peaceful at least, and Mort was surprised to find he felt a comforting numbness. The nurse came in quickly to double-check his vitals and another came to offer condolences as the sheet was lowered over Gareth’s face. 

He didn’t even remember the ride home, but he knew he’d been pressed against someone’s side. It had been the only time during that night he’d felt warm. 

* * * 

Two days after his father’s death, Mort had made a decision. He had decided that if one more person popped out of nowhere, looked at him, and said “Oh, I’m so sorry,” they were going to get a spork shoved directly up their ass. 

Jon, he’d decided, was the only person he was going to talk to ever again in this place. Because after a day of dealing with funeral arrangements and legal paperwork up the kazoo, Jon had taken one look at him and decided they were going to both go build a sheet-fort behind the garden shed and sit under it while eating ice cream. Mort wasn’t pressed to say or talk about anything. His sole job right now was to eat ice cream. With a spork, because apparently all the freaking spoons in the freaking Institute had vanished and sporks were the only cutlery Jon could find on short notice. That was fine; sporks could still scoop up the ice cream and also he could stab someone in the eye if they came to ask how he was fucking ‘doing’ today. 

Also, there were cats. Apparently someone had been leaving food out for the wild cats in the fields, and they had come around to the garden to check stuff out. Cats apparently liked ice cream too, and Mort currently had a lapful of hopeful calico and black kittens. This was shaping up to be a good day for once. His bruises had even healed up, not that they were vivid on green skin, but his face and body weren’t so tender any more. 

Yep, good day. 

“So . . .” Jon started out, and Mort held back a groan, silently pleading with the man not to cause himself any spork injuries. Luckily, it was not any of the questions Mort had been dreading. “So I was doing laundry, and I found this article in my shirt pocket . . .”

Was it even possible to choke on ice-cream? Apparently yes, if it went down the wrong pipe. He coughed violently, scattering kittens, who stared at him indignantly from the other side of the sheet-fort, licking their paws. “Oh my god, I am so sorry!” he rasped, wiping his mouth. 

“Hey, it’s okay. Some of them looked interesting.”

Mort looked at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

Now Jon looked a little flustered. “Oh. I guess I should’ve have read it? I – at first I assumed you’d left it in my pocket for me to find, but I guess that’s . . . totally not the case. Okay, can I just die now? Why’d I even bring it up, oh my god . . .”

Tilting his head, Mort couldn’t help a smile. Jon looked almost as embarrassed as him the first time he’d tried and failed to flirt with Pietro. That had been an unmitigated disaster. He’d never really seen Forge as anything but quiet, calm and collected. But right now he was freaking out and dork-flailing, and making kittens occasionally duck and glare at him and it was the cutest thing ever. “So my dad thought we were already steady,” Mort threw in, when Jon had stopped apologizing to breathe. The man let out a strangled squeak. 

“He said we could either get married in Vermont or California. And he gave me that article to spice up our ‘bed life’. He suggested number five.” 

“Number five?” 

Now Jon just looked disturbed and Mort worried he’d come on too strong. “Um. Yeah, it’s kinda creepy, I know,” he acknowledged self-consciously. “But I think he was just trying to make up for stuff . . . possibly a little too hard.” 

Jon considered that and nodded. “Well, at least I have his blessing.” 

Mort sat up straight, blinking. “Blessing?” 

It was all he got out before Jon leaned forward and kissed him. Mortimer didn’t even think twice about kissing back.


End file.
